Where the Meat Lies

There is a cock on your plate.

Your face is pressed against the table inches away from it.

A hand is tangled in your hair, pushing you down possessively, and she speaks with this arousing growl in her voice and a whole ocean of superiority in her eyes. And everything has every right to be exactly where it is.

"Dinner's served. It's your favourite."

How the fuck did we get here?

See, it all began in the year 1998 when a man and a woman, your soon-to-be parents, loved each other very much, and –

Okay, okay, not that far back, okay. You're here for the meat of the story. Ha, meat of the story.

You accept generous financial benefits to keep successful women company when they are feeling lonely at night. Not a prostitute – the correct term would be escort, there is a difference.

The difference is not in your ass; it would hurt all the same. The difference is exactly where the meat of this story lies – in the money. Or rather in the power that the money comes from, to be more precise.

You've seen your fair share of luxurious apartments, villas, penthouses, hotel rooms and all that. You've bathed in lavender-scented lavish soaps, wrapped yourself in Egyptian cotton bathrobes to fall asleep on bajillion thread count bed sheets next to beautiful women. You've eaten fillet mignon or however the fuck you pronounce it, and you've wiped your mouth with napkins that cost more than your whole outfit. All in order to not dirty the mistresses' cocks, of course.

Because, just like with prostitutes and escorts, there is a difference between successful women and escorts. This luxury, as plentiful as it is, is all borrowed for you but just a Tuesday for them.

Some are nice about it, comforting with the way they offer to pamper you.

But not Park Jihyo. That woman loved to look at you like a cockroach. Now, I don't know what a roach is, but whatever it is, you probably approximate it on her cock.

Here’s how a usual night with her went.

You walk into her penthouse – massive beyond belief – and the worst part is she isn't even overcompensating. If anything, she is just signalling the reality, if you know what I mean.

She is sitting on the couch, or on the dinner table, or is just walking down the stairs; it doesn't really matter; she is at home anywhere here. You stand next to the elevator and wait for her to call you over.

And it’s not even a ‘welcome’ or a 'hello'; it’s just a wave of the hand, and you – like an obedient pet at mealtime – walk over to her.

She is at the table this time, obviously. This huge, 20-person mahogany table. She doesn’t need it; she lives alone here. But, see – and this is the meat of the story again – you don’t buy a table like that because you need it. You do it because you can.

The same way you can call your escort over to that table, sit him in front of a single, empty plate from a white porcelain set that costs more than the average car. No, fuck that, the plate is silver, and it alone costs more than the average car. She has gold ones too, by the way, but you don’t quite deserve them.

She unzips her pants, some bullshit French designer that sounds like a crow dying any time a mortal tries to pronounce his name, and grabs your hair roughly.

And this brings us nicely into the opening scene – cock and balls on her plate, now positioned in front of you; your face into her table; sharp nails digging into your scalp because she owns it for the next however many dollars she paid; and a voice made of pure confidence.

“Dinner’s served, bitchboy.” 

For context, you’ve been around the block. Karina is big but gentle, soft like her tits. Tzuyu is long but thin. Miyeon is average and submissive. Minju is surprisingly large but unsurprisingly shy about it, so it’s not that bad. 

But Jihyo… oh boy, no one compares.

Let’s go from the beginning. She was born on February first, 1997. That means that a young Korean couple were thematically making passionate love somewhere on Jeju on May first, 1996. While listening to Shakira, nonetheless, because a woman like that does not spawn from having lights-off sex in December while bumping J.Y. Park. Obviously. They were in the throws of passion, probably somewhere on the beach, when –

Right, the meat of the story, yes. 

You cried the first time you took her. Granted, it was your first week on the job, and she was fucking merciless with that absolute weapon between her legs. 

And this is the issue, you see, she loves it when you cry. Loved it then, loves it now; that’s why you are here every Tuesday night. Except for holidays, of course. Prostitutes don’t have that! And as you’ve gotten more experienced, it has become harder to make you cry. Yet she always succeeds all the same.

Which nicely brings us back to the beginning.

Cock and balls on a plate, your cheek on the rough wood – “You’ll suck my cock, bitchboy” – and all that, you get the picture by now.

It is a delectable piece of roasted beef on a silver platter. Literally. It is still flaccid, of course. You would have to correct that, of course. It is still huge even when not erect. There is nothing to correct there except for the diameter of your ass. Of course.

“Yes, Mistress." You say pathetically. She likes it when you call her mistress. She likes everything you do – otherwise, you wouldn’t be doing it.

And so you take the tan piece of meat into your mouth and begin licking it. You seal your lips around her tip and suck. You run your tongue on the underside and moan because she likes it when you do. Your eyes naturally drift up to search for hers out of courtesy even though – worst part is – she has fucking sunglasses on. Inside. With the lights down low. Who does that? Park fucking Jihyo, that’s who. Now suck her dick, bitchboy.

She is beginning to harden on top of your tongue and adjusts the position – because it is always her who is in charge – to push deeper into your mouth. She hits your uvula or whatever, and you gag, naturally. This is her favourite part; it has to be yours too, otherwise you wouldn’t get paid. That’s not too different between prostitutes and escorts. But it is different between successful women and workers of the night. See? Meat all around.

Especially in your mouth and going hard in your throat as you choke around it. It’s like a balloon expanding in your oesophagus, or however you call it. She pushes her sunglasses down a bit to stare at you more effectively with that signature I-am-so-much-better-than-you look, you know the one. It makes you throb under the table because, despite the way that she is looking at you as if you are disposable – because you are – she is fucking hot. And maybe that makes it worse. She is so cocky and rude and rich and big and rough with you. But she has every right to be. Or maybe that only makes it better. Your cock seems to favour the latter.

Your throat, however, seems to favour the former. She pushes deeper, and you are now stuck to her pubis or something. And, holy shit, she is still expanding in your throat. You look up at her, pathetically, if I may add, and she nods at you before she speaks.

“Swallow, whore.”

Escort would be preferable, but you don’t object. You wouldn’t object even if you weren’t too busy contracting your throat around her thick cock and fighting back the urge to choke and cry.

You fail miserably on both accounts and she loves it. Otherwise, no money for you, of course. You gag harshly and tap her muscular thigh twice, the safeword when words cannot travel through her meatstick, and she pulls back slowly. Inch after inch after inch after inch, and oh my fucking God, it just doesn’t end. You still wonder how it all fits in your throat. That thing is longer than your forearm and just as thick. You know because Jihyo likes measuring her cock against things. Your forearm, your shoe, both of them lined up heel to toe (her cock’s just barely shorter than that, if you’re wondering. You’ve got small feet, everybody knows it), champagne bottles, laptops, etcetera, etcetera.

Now, Jihyo’s dick is standing tall right in front of your face, and you swallow, throat feeling as if you just ran a marathon with it. A tear is running down your cheek, and she wipes it with her thumb. The gesture is warm and loving because she does value you. Another difference between you and a prostitute. No one values prostitutes. You, on the other hand, get asked questions like – “Did you enjoy that as much as I did?” – spoken in a sultry tone and with a shining cock.

You obviously cannot answer with no, but prostitutes do not even get to pretend. Meat! You are a lot of things, but you’re neither a prostitute nor a liar, so when you say – “Yes, Mistress.” – you best believe your cock is leaving a stain of precum on your underwear.

“Good boy.” Jihyo grabs your hair again and pulls you to the couch in the centre of the room.

That couch is insane. Not quite Wonyoung's, but, unlike her, Jihyo actually fucks there. Or here, technically. Your head is hanging off of the edge of this pure white couch, pleated with gold and diamonds or something even crazier, and it oversees the entirety of the Seoul lights that could ever shine on a Tuesday night. Not that it matters, all that you’ll be overseeing is balls. Or, technically, underseeing with how you’re positioned. 

But before that, she has to strip, of course, and it is always a treat you feel undeserving to witness. But that’s another difference between you and a prostitute – you are actually perfectly qualified to watch how her cashmere or something similar shirt, designed by some Italian guy who introduces himself with award-winning seasons instead of his actual name, rides up that muscular, naturally tan torso. It gets caught on her tits, for effect, of course. And then they fall out with this magnificent jiggle. Her pants follow suit, the French-guy-crow-dying ones, and she stands in front of you stark naked.

Everything about her is big and commanding the utmost respect. Her thick thighs can drive that slick, massive cock in and out of you for hours without her getting winded in the slightest. That abdomen is the dream of billions, probably, and makes arenas scream like you scream into her pillow on nights like this one. Her tits are fucking huge; I don’t know what else to say about that. And the goddamn sunglasses are still on because nothing could ever catch Park Jihyo lacking.

And she is all dark skin, deserved hauteur and lust incarnate – Shakira on the beach during the Mayan Jeju heat, I tell you.

Either way, you don’t get much time to ogle because her cockhead is already pushing past your parted lips. Over your tongue, into your throat, and, oh look, there are now balls over your nose. You retch, as one does in this scenario, and she pulls back. She slides back in, and you gag. She pulls back out, and you take a deep breath because you know you’ll need it. The pressure is unlike anything else. It’s like every throb of her veiny cock is trying to blow your poor throat apart. But you swallow around it, nonetheless. You’re fucking good, and she knows it. That’s why it’s you here, with Jihyo’s cock in your mouth, and not some random slut or cheap prostitue. Because she has standards as high as her horse.

Speaking of horses, her dick is now fucking your throat. She is moving quickly, hips snapping at a punishing pace that draws gasps, spit and tears out of you. Her thrusts are shallower now because she is merciless but still doesn’t want you dead after all. She cares about your health and safety. Difference between an escort and a prostitute, and, say it with me now, meat!